


just a touch (is all it takes)

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Baby Yoda Loves His Mandadlorian, Cobb's Red Scarf, Din "I Can't Deal With Feelings" Djarin, Din Djarin's Poor Planning, M/M, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Near Death Experiences, Pre-Relationship, Small Moment of Religious Crisis of Faith, Tatooine boys get things done, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, and this causes more trouble than you'd think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27735523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Din's plan to "run in, blow stuff up, and run out" does not go according to plan, and now he might pay the ultimate price for it -- only he's not alone, after all.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 66
Kudos: 495





	just a touch (is all it takes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffeeQuill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/gifts).



Help wasn’t going to make it in time. 

Din didn’t want to admit it, but the clock had run out five minutes previous — if not before — and he still wasn’t topside of the bunker. 

Even with the extra sixty seconds he’d allotted himself to get out of there in time, he wasn’t going to make it. 

Dank _farrik,_ he really hadn’t wanted to be buried alive. 

Maybe the explosion would kill him, first, so he wouldn’t suffocate under however many tonnes of rock and debris were about to come crashing down on him— 

A soft coo broke through his spiraling thoughts, and Din spun around, panic squeezing him like a hand around the throat when he saw the child toddling toward him, _not_ safely on the _Razor Crest_ where he’d left him with Greef. 

That was the last time he was letting that old conman babysit for him, _that_ was for sure.

Probably because he’d be too dead to ever make that mistake again, but—

“What are you _doing_ here?” said Din, a little sharper than he’d intended, striding back down the hallway to scoop up the kid and glare ineffectively at him from behind his helmet. “Kid, you aren’t supposed to be here.” 

A distant _boom_ sounded, and Din staggered as the floor and the walls began to shake, the child shrieking in his grasp. 

“Fuck,” said Din, and started running, clutching the child to his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck—”_

Something else exploded, much closer, and the ramp Din had been racing up splintered under his boots, the force of the blast sending him flying up to crash onto the landing, just barely managing not to land right on the kid. 

Squashed like a bug under Din’s armor — what a horrible way to go, especially since _Din_ was supposed to be the one _keeping him safe._

He hadn’t even managed to do _that_ with any degree of effectiveness, and now thanks to his bad backup plans and unreliable friends as babysitters, the kid was going to _die._

And it was all Din’s fault. 

“Not like this,” he whispered, climbing to his feet as the floor rocked and buckled, shouldering off of the wall to keep running. He was still a floor too low underground, and he was likely to become much further underground if the lower floors continued to collapse. “Not like this, it wasn’t meant to end like this—” 

The floor disappeared from under his feet, and Din was falling again. 

The child screamed, and Din wrapped his arms around him as best he could, hoping to shelter him from the worst of the fall— 

He hit something, hard, knocking all the breath from his lungs, and far above him, he could see the ceiling collapsing, as if in slow motion, electricity sparking from torn wires in brilliant, blinding fireworks. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Din, and his vision was blurring, either from the fall or from the tears spilling hot down his cheeks, and the child whimpered. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

They didn’t have long. 

No— 

_Din_ didn’t have long. 

Looking at the kid, at those trusting dark eyes, he knew what to do. 

Even as the chunks of stone and torn durasteel began to rain down onto them, Din rolled over onto his knees, wincing when something struck him in the back almost hard enough to knock him down again. 

“Just hang on until help gets here, okay, kid?” he said, and lifted his hands to his helmet. 

His hands were shaking. 

“Close your eyes, _ad’ika,”_ he whispered, and the child closed his eyes shut tight. 

Trusting. In _Din._

Who had probably sealed the kid’s fate, anyway. 

“This is the way,” he murmured, and removed his helmet, setting it firmly down over the child and curling his body around it protectively, curling one arm over his own head. His tears fell freely, no longer caught by the inside of his helmet. 

He didn’t want to die. 

He didn’t want to leave the child alone, in a galaxy that was all too eager to see him harmed. 

“Kid,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I—” 

Then the world went dark, and Din knew nothing more. 

— 

The afterlife was a lot noisier than Din had expected. Too many voices, saying too much at once for him to parse together, even if he could get himself to focus on the words, and awful scraping noises, durasteel on durasteel. 

And it was _dark._

And kind of painful — there was a weight on his legs and back, something pressing down on him with what felt like the weight of a speeder, and he groaned as his ribs creaked. 

Cool air tickled the hair at the back of his neck, and a voice broke through the rest, far too familiar and close. “Whoa, hang on, there. Slow down.” 

A warm hand curled at the back of his neck, thumb sliding down to rest under his chin, and he sucked in a breath at the touch. 

If Cobb Vanth had somehow managed to get himself killed during this entire fiasco, too, then Din was going to strangle him, afterlife or no.

“He’s alive!” said Vanth, which was a surprise to Din, really. “Partner, can you hear me?” 

Din opened his mouth. Tasted dust, and coughed. “Marshal.” 

“Oh, good, you’ve still got a brain in there somewhere,” said Vanth, sounding suspiciously cheerful. “I was beginning to wonder, since _you blew up the place before getting your ass out of there, you kriffing moron.”_ By the end of the sentence, the marshal was _definitely_ yelling, and Din winced.

“Don’t shout at me,” mumbled Din, trying to move his arms, to push himself up, and the hand on the back of his neck tightened warningly until he stilled. “The kid…” 

“Kriffin’ hell, is he down there with you?” said Vanth, and Din couldn’t contain a shiver when that thumb rubbed soothingly down his neck. 

“Helmet,” he said, his voice sounding stupidly breathless to his ears — had to be the weight on his back, constricting his breathing. Yeah. “He’s in my helmet.” 

Which he _was_ — Din could feel the helmet moving under him, as the child tried fruitlessly to push it off. 

Maker, he hoped the kid could still breathe down there. 

“Well, that answers my next question,” said Vanth drily, and his hand lifted, leaving Din’s skin feeling cold in the wake of his touch. “Which was where the hell you lost it. Hang on a moment.” 

Well, it wasn’t like he could really _go anywhere,_ so Din stayed still, listening to scraping sounds behind him. 

And then a weight lifted from his shoulders, fresh air rushing through his hair and over his face— 

—and Vanth’s red scarf dropped over his head, the cloth dragging in the dust, and Din couldn’t breathe for a moment at the sheer _relief_ that soaked through him like hot water. 

“Careful around his head, you lot, don’t make me say it twice,” said Vanth, muffled as he spoke away from Din, as if he wasn’t the most decent human being in the entire galaxy and Din didn’t want to kiss him right on his stupidly handsome face. 

Maybe he really was dead, if he was having thoughts like that. 

Or he’d just hit his head. 

Maybe both. 

“You dislodge that and I won’t stop him from kicking your ass.” Then his voice again, gentler this time, warm as his hand had been on Din’s skin. “Just hold tight, alright, Mando? We’ll get you out of here in no time.” 

“How’d you… find me?” said Din, because it was starting to sink in that he _wasn’t_ dead yet, and Vanth _laughed,_ a soft, relieved sound. 

“Mos Pelgo is a town of _miners,_ partner, you think a little bit of digging was gonna slow us down?” A hand smoothed down the scarf over his head, tucking the ends more securely around his neck. “Just hold still, now, we’ve got one more big piece to move and then we’ll be able to get you out. Just _hold still,_ alright?” 

“Alright,” said Din. He could hold still. “Hear that, kid? We’re busting out of here.” 

“Stay _still,_ partner,” said Vanth, almost distractedly, and a hand patted Din’s shoulder. “Maybe hold your breath for a moment.” 

Din pretended that didn’t sound _really alarming,_ and held his breath, tightening his grip on the helmet he cradled. The scraping sounds were louder now that his head was clear of the rubble, and the murmurs of _careful, there_ and _wait, slowly does it_ weren’t nearly as reassuring as Vanth’s touch had been. 

“Duck your head,” said Vanth, sudden and sharp, and Din curled into a tighter ball. 

Something brushed the back of his head, a _whoosh_ of displaced air following it, and a moment later the pressure on his ribs and legs lifted. 

“Now, how ‘bout you ease on over here toward me, yeah? And bring the sprout with you. Nice and easy, now, keep your head down.” 

Din reached blindly out with one arm, and a hand guided his to a place to grip at the floor, just enough for him to drag himself a bit toward the sound of Vanth’s voice. “Hang on, kid,” he muttered, lifting himself up enough to turn the helmet, hearing the child’s squeak of protest as he was dumped into the cup of it. Safer for dragging it along under him. 

“Head _down,”_ repeated Vanth, and Din ducked his head lower, nose almost to the ground, and then there were hands on his arm, hooked around his sides, dragging him across the floor. “There we go, that’s it.” 

The dragging stopped, and someone was holding him in their lap, arms around his chest to hold him steady, sprawled at a somewhat awkward angle, the helmet clutched in his hands. 

_“Good_ man,” said Vanth, his voice a rumble right through Din’s back, and all the tension left Din’s body with such abruptness that for a moment he felt lightheaded, his head dropping back against Vanth’s chest, the scarf over his face fluttering as he let out a heavy breath. “Hey, sprout, you alright? Your dad keep you safe?” The child babbled in response, and a hand patted Din’s cuirass. “Yeah, thought so. He’s good at that. You wanna hop out of that helmet, let Mando get his face back on?” 

“It’s not my _face,”_ said Din, and he could feel Vanth’s laugh through his whole body as the child clambered onto his chest, small hands patting at his chin through the red fabric. “You okay, kid?”

More pats to his face, one that got him in the nose, and a gentle coo. 

Yeah, the kid was alright. Probably scarred for life from all the stuff he’d seen, but he was alright. 

“How you wanna do this?” said Vanth, and the weight of the kid was lifted from Din’s chest, the marshal shifting behind him to help him sit up. “I hold the scarf up, you get the helmet on? I promise I won’t look.” 

“You’d better not,” retorted Din, and Vanth was laughing again. Din turned the helmet over in his hands, the contours of it familiar to his fingers even without being able to see it, and he hesitated. “You promise, marshal?” 

“It’s a big scarf, I won’t even lift it all the way,” said Vanth gently. “Just lean forward a bit, so you can get that helmet on underneath.” 

Right. Made sense. Very logical, really. “On three?” 

Vanth muttered something that Din didn’t quite catch, then said, louder, “On three. Your count?” 

“One,” said Din. “Two.” He tipped his head forward, slowly, feeling the fabric brush lightly over his hair as Vanth lifted it. “Three.” 

He slid on his helmet and let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, lifting his head and brushing the scarf off of him. Vanth was grinning when he looked at him, soot on his clothes and face and a new tear in the sleeve of his shirt, the child doing his very best to climb up onto Vanth’s lap by himself — the marshal scooped him up, handing the child over to Din almost before he started to reach for him. 

“Hey, kid,” he said softly, and the child blinked up at him, ears lifting inquisitively. “We _will_ be having a talk about wandering off.” 

The child babbled something nonsensical to him, and patted the side of his helmet, as if to say, _there, there._ When Din looked up, Vanth was getting to his feet, offering him a hand up, and he finally saw the small group of Mos Pelgo residents with hand-held mining tools gathered around them. 

His rescuers. 

“This place isn’t all that stable,” said the marshal, and Din took his hand, letting Vanth pull him up. His body ached, every inch of it, but he was standing, and the child was safe. “Maybe next time ask for help _before_ you drop a building on yourself, huh, Mando? Ain’t so fun getting a distress call and wondering whether we’d get there in time.” 

“Thank you,” said Din, and he meant it, for so many reasons. He hadn’t let go of Vanth’s hand, either, but he didn’t want to think about _those_ reasons. “I owe you.” 

“That you do,” said Vanth cheerfully, and he squeezed Din’s hand gently. “I’m telling ya, one Mandalorian and a team of miners could’ve blown this place up a lot safer than just the one of you. And you,” he added, ruffling the child’s sparse hair, and the child giggled. “Greef’s been giving us an earful about you runnin’ off on him, sprout.” He glanced at Din, still with that warm smile. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before the rest of this place comes down on our heads.” 

His hand slipped from Din’s, deftly securing the red scarf around his own neck again, lifting a corner to wipe some of the soot from his face — it did little more than smear it around. 

In the dim light, through the visor of Din’s helmet, he looked beautiful. 

“You with us, partner?” 

The miners were already moving toward whatever hole they’d dug through to get to him, and Din didn’t want to spend one more second down there in the dark. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m with you.” 

And he followed Vanth, out to the light. 


End file.
